


Across the Crystal Sands

by Iron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cliffjumper and Bumblebee are brothers, Depression, Multi, Rarepair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Cliffjumper is filling in for his brother at a gala when he meets Deathsaurus, council member of the new aligned Cybertronian government. He expects the mech to forget him, just like everyone else in his life does.Six weeks later, when Bumblebee realizes his brother has been lost during a courier run through the wilds of Cybertron, he engages the assistance of the only mech strong enough that he can convince to help him find his brother.Deathsaurus is bored. This might be interesting, as long as he doesn’t kill the irritations he’s been stuck with on their way through and back to civilization.
Relationships: Bumblebee&Cliffjumper, Cliffjumper/Deathsaurus
Comments: 18
Kudos: 61





	1. Into the Unknown

The mech is... small. Deathsaurus wasn’t expecting that, way mechs spoke about him during the Quint war. _A fighter_ , they’d called him. _A fragging seventh day wonder_. Yeah, there wasn’t any secret that the mech was a minibot, but the way even Megatron talked about him you’d think he was a big as ten mechs. 

He barely comes up to Deathsaurus’s knee. Swooped little horns, big optics, bigger feet. Nothing to call home about in the looks department.

His optics are Autobot blue, and they look up at Deathsaurus with uncertainty when he approaches the little mech. “You’re Bumblebee,” he hisses, circling him. 

The mech’s expression drops from nervousness to a deep scowl, and he crosses thick forearms over his chest. “I’m not. You’ve made a mistake.” 

“Then who are you?” 

He cocks his little red helm before turning away. “Would it matter to you? All _you_ need to know is that I’m not Bumblebee. That’s all anyone ever does.” 

“Everyone here thinks you’re him. Are you cashing in on another mech’s success, minibot? Leeching on a war hero’s fame?” 

The little mech’s engine rumbles. “Is that what you would call it?” He snorts. “I’m here because Bumblebee paid me to play stand-in for him for tonight. He had a date.” 

“And you agreed?” 

“Spent my whole function with people assuming I’m him, I might has well get something out of it.” The mech runs his optics over the crowd. “Plus the fuel’s pretty good and I don’t have anything better to do except get overcharged alone in my apartment.” He’s watching Optimus dance with Megatron, the two new leaders of Cybertron whispering and scowling at each other. Well, Megatron’s scowling at Optimus; the Prime has his faceplate up. Deathsaurus only knows because the mech’s an easy read. 

“So you chose getting overcharged here instead of getting overcharged at home?” 

The little mech shrugs. “Better engex here than what I can afford.” 

Deathsaurus circles him again, the playing on his wings rattling. Despite himself, he’s intrigued. He certainly looks like a soldier, but not one that Deathsaurus can name, with a solid stance and the sort of well-disguised scars he’s learned to expect from former frontliners. There weren’t a lot of those during the wars, not minibot ones, but he can’t for the life of him name the damn mech. 

He leans forward to scent him; oil and thin fuel and cheap polish, warm plating, Cybertronian crystals and metals. He smells like someone who spends most of their time outside. That’s rare enough in most places; as soon as Cybertron had buildings again, most mechs were eager to stay inside. Some sort of laborer then? But if he looks enough like a famous mech to get hired as a stand-in, what’s he doing working in some low class position like that? 

The mech shoves his face away, snarling. “Get the frag away from me!” His engine rumbles, small but feirce, and Deathsaurus feels his interested peaked once more against his will. _What a fierce little beast_. 

“Tell me your name, minibot.” 

The mech bares his denta at him. “Frag off.” 

“Only if you frag off with me.” 

Deathsaurus wants to see him fight, wants to see him bare his denta and _bite_ , this little red mech. 

The mech pushes away from the wall. “You know what, _I’ll_ frag off. You stay at this stupid little party. I’ve run down the clock wasting my time with you.” He stomps off, and Deathsaurus watches him go. He’s sure this won’t be the last time he sees the mech. 

— 

Cliffjumper goes home. He’s not sure why he even took the job in the first place, knowing how much he fragging _hates_ being mistaken as his brother, but he did, and now that damn dragon knows he’s not Bumblebee, and he’d cut the night short, and Bumblebee’s going to bitch at him for not staying the whole night - 

He shoves is way into his shitty little apartment and drops down at his little table in the open area of his apartment, shoulders slumping. But there’s shanix in his bank account and that... that has to make it worth it. Even if nothing else really does. 

His tank’s still full from the fuel at the party, and he isn’t sure he has anything in the apartment anyways; between his courier job and the small size, he doesn’t spend a lot of time in it, and he doesn’t like fueling alone anyways. He contemplates going to Blurr’s, but the bar’s mostly full of drunks and he doesn’t like fueling with those, either, at least not if he’s not as deep into their cubes as they will be. 

He sits at the table for a little longer before deciding that, slag it, if he’s got nothing better to do than he’s going to get himself off hard enough to get tired and then he’s going to sleep. 

Getting off is annoying. Most nights he hardly bothers with it, unable to dredge up the right fantasy. Tonight it’s purely mechanical; one fist around his spike, fingers of his other hand working his node. He overloads when he manages to press the side of his thumb against his node while slipping two fingers into his valve, entire frame shuddering. He takes the time to wipe off the worst of it and replace his modesty plating before he rolls over and tries to sleep. It comes as easy as it does most nights. 

His dreams are full of black.

In the morning he has to take another shower, sluices off the worst of the night before, and then he has real work to do. 

He’s a courier. From Iacon to Kaon, the sign on his store reads, We ship it where you go! 

_They_ don’t ship slag. He drives things where they’re supposed to go, navigating the ruined land between cities. Grounders can go where the fliers can’t, or won’t, anymore, as long as they’re clever and fast and brave. He’s two of those things. Probably why he’s still alive. 

Cliffjumper heads around back, where they keep the packages going out. His are already waiting for him inside the warehouse, on the shelving unit with his designation on it. Only reason he comes back here, some days; they’ve never called him Bumblebee here. Then again, most days he doesn’t talk to anyone here, so there’s no one to call him Bumblebee. Makes his life a little easier. 

He collects the packages he’s due to delivery; this route will probably take him a good two or three weeks, seeing as some of them are destined for Vos of all places. He’ll be spending most of that time between the cities, out of comm range and camping in what the war had turned into untamed wilds. The idea suits his mood. He doesn’t really want to be around people right now. 

There’s no one worth telling that he’s going to be out of contact for a while, so he doesn’t bother with it, just picks himself up and heads out. It’s probably half the reason he keeps getting the complicated routes - he has no one to complain about missing to management. That, and he always manages to get most of his packages to their destination. There’s little chance of brigands or thieves making off with his cargo, or him letting something like nature ruin it. 

It takes him almost an hour to get out of Iacon proper, and he spends the drive - boring, mostly, retracing streets he’d helped rebuild and memorized months ago - looking through the route directions left with his cargo. The route’s mostly along the Octagon Canyon, though he’s got a delivery in Rodion and another in Upper Petrohex that’ll take him straight off the beaten path. 

He digs his tires into the softer, untamed roads just outside of Iacon’s walls, and feels his entire frame calm. He can’t say he doesn’t love his job. 

— 

Deathsaurus hasn’t really thought of the little red minibot since the party. He can’t say he hasn’t at all, since the mech’s counterpart had been in several meetings that Deathsaurus had been a part of since then, but it’s not like the little mech’s taken over his thoughts. At most it’s idle musings, some way to pass the time. 

He’s in another meeting with Bumblebee. That’s all he feels like he’s doing these days, meetings after meeting. He used to be a general. He used to fight! He used to be more than this. 

He finds the little yellow mini dreadfully boring. Cheery, yes, as cheery as his paint, and smart, and everything else they said about him. But there isn’t any _bite_ to him. Everything runs off of his plating, nothing seems to _touch_ him, nothing seems to effect him at all. 

The mech from the other night had more bite to him than half the idiots on the new council, leading the new cities and the new Cybertronian aligned government. Deathsaurus wonders what he’d say about them now, debating if they’re going to rebuild Kalis or Simfur next, debating building bridges to span the Mesmeric canyons, talking and spinning words and making up reasons not to do things for this mech and do them for that mech. Deathsaurus listens, feathers along his neck bristling, bored beyond thought. He can’t think of why he wanted to be on the council. It’s full of such small mechs. 

Eventually they break for a midday meal. Deathsaurus intends to flee to somewhere he won’t be tempted to murder the other idiots on the council, and most of them are smart enough not to follow him. 

Most. 

A little hand touches his thigh, and he jerks his helm around to glare at the sand-for-brains who actually dare _touch_ him. 

It’s Bumblebee. Of course it is. And he’s smiling like Deathsaurus should be happy to see him. “Um, hey, hi, I’m Bumblebee, but you probably already know that. I was wondering if I could talk to you privately?” 

“Why?” Deathsaurus steps away so that the little annoyance is no longer touching him. The brat encrouches on his space _again_ , like he didn’t get the message. Or he didn’t care. Deathsaurus was leaning towards not caring. There was no other way a mech that stupid would have survived the war. 

“I heard you were good at tracking people down. I need your help - my brother’s missing.” 

“And why should I care if some mech’s gone off? Mechs do it all the time. He’s probably out in the wilds. Or something.” 

“I - see, I know that, but Cliffjumper wouldn’t just go off like that. He doesn’t like people, and he’s responsible. He has a job. He’s a courier, he didn’t check in to the drop point near Chromere, no one knows where he is.” 

Deathsaurus tries to recall what he knows of Cybertron’s geography. It isn’t much. “That’s thousand of miles worth of territory to cover.” 

“I know. Which is why I need help.” 

“Don’t you have that hunter of yours? The tracker mech?” One of Optimus Prime’s guards. Deathsaurus only knows him because the mech had been sent out several times to pick up the Prime’s wayward successor, and had proven apt in digging him out of the most awkward little crevasses in the still-recovering city. Who knew Nyans were so good at getting underground? Dog, or Mutt, or something like that. 

“Hound’s busy keeping track of things here. Heh, track. Anyways, I already asked him and he said no. You’re not exactly my first choice, okay? But I figured you’d say yes, since you know my brother and everything. I saw you two talking.” 

That makes the ‘con cock his helm. “I know your brother? _Doubtful_. I don’t think I’ve ever met another mech like... you.” 

That is not a compliment; even Bumblebee seems to understand that. 

“Yeah! You might not remember him, I swear his Sigma’s getting forgotten, but you talked to him at a party a few weeks ago. Red? My height? The coolest set of horns ever? Kind of grumpy but with a spark of helium? Him!” 

“...red. Your replacement. The mech you sent as your stand-in was your brother?” 

Deathsaurus could almost respect a mech that blithely offensive. 

“His name’s Cliffjumper! Like I said, he’s a courier, I thought he’d enjoy a night off like that.” Bumblebee shrugs. “You know how brothers are, right? I feel like I need to drag him by the horn to get him to do anything or talk to anyone!” His optics are overbright, and Deathsaurus could almost think he actually _believes_ the drivel he’s spouting. Almost. No one could be that obtuse. “I saw those vids of you two talking, so I was hoping you’d help me find him.” 

“And why should I help you do anything?” 

Bumblebee is still smiling like he’s got nothing but fluff in his helm when he holds up a data chip, pinched delicately between blunt fingers. “Because if you don’t I show Prime and Megatron proof of you having siphoned off excess energon from the store rooms for your own use, and _they_ will do much worse to you than dragging you on a quest!” 

Fire gurgles in his gut, smoke crawling over his tongue as he takes in the little monster in front of him. “...ah.” 

— 

He agrees. Reluctantly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you like my writing, check more out at [@fab_roddy on Twitter!](%E2%80%9C)

The little pest keeps up the cheery facade even after they’ve left the city, and the little thing’s been nattering on since they left the city gates. Deathsaurus sort of wants to kill him just to make him shut up, even if he knows that isn’t an option. The kid was smart enough to blackmail him, he was probably smart enough to set up a dead man’s switch, too. 

“So. How do you know where your brother got lost?” 

“I have his delivery route, of course.” The little bug sounds like he’s begging to be _squashed_ , he’s so smug. “He made it to Vos, then dropped down towards Rodion, where he was supposed to drop something off at an ironworks factory. I broke into his bank account and found receipts for a take out place on the outskirts, but after that first meal there’s no sign in for a car park for the night. He effectively falls off the grid after that.” 

“Have you considered the idea that he doesn’t want to be found?” Deathsaurus is picking his way through the stone tossed carelessly on the side of the road. He’d fly, if the stupid little bug could keep up, but beastformers aren’t allowed on the paved roads. Those are meant for vehicular modes only, leaving Deathsaurus to suffer pebbles in the plating of his claws and a weird hitch in his hip joint from too much walking over uneven ground. 

“It’s Cliff. He put me through the Academy, he’s been a frontliner since the war started, he’s the only heavy artillery carrying minibot in the whole Autobot army. He doesn’t just _run_. He’s brave, and he’s stubborn.” 

“Everyone gets their fill at some point.” 

“Not Cliff. Not my brother.” 

Deathsaurus kicks a rock into the road just to watch the annoying little fragger swerve around it. Primus, no wonder the little slagger had disappeared, if this is how his brother reacted to him being a little late on a delivery. _Overprotective, much?_ And no real reason for it, too, if the little idiot’s telling the truth about his little brother. “Put you through the Academy, huh? Then what’d he study?” 

“He didn’t. Said he didn’t want to; his mentor recommended him for a sanitation job.” 

“So you went to...?” 

He can _see_ the little brat’s plating puff up with pride. “Iaconian Academy of Forensic Sciences, majoring in Law and Investigation. Police, basically. Straight shot to detective out of graduation.” 

“And your brother was relegated to cleaning up other people’s slag.” 

“It was what his mentor thought he was best suited for, that’s all.” 

“So it was.” He knocks another boulder into Bumblebee’s path. This time the mech barely manages to dodge it. “And after the war you became... whatever you are for the Prime, and he went back to a low caste occupation.” 

“He changed jobs. He said he wanted to travel. I talked to a few people and tried to get him set up with a job that would take him all over Cybertron. He’s seen more of our world by now than I have.” 

“You say that like you expect him to thank you.” 

“No, I - he’s family. I wanted to help him because he’s family. I wanted him to do something he loves.” 

“Did you even ask if he wanted you to help him?” 

“Why would I need to? I know him best, I know what’s best for him.” 

“And then he fell off the grid.” 

“Don’t say it like that!” Bumblebee swerves, tires losing traction for a moment. “He’s my older brother, I’m just looking out for him.” 

“I never said you weren’t.” 

“You implied it!” 

“Then maybe you should think about why I did that instead of getting angry with me for doing it.” 

Bumblebee pulls ahead of him, engine revving too loud for the type of mileage he’s putting out. Deathsaurus watches, tail lashing. “Little idiot.” 

Their time on the road has started stretching into the “hours” range when Bumblebee calls for them to stop, hitting the brakes so hard his tires squeal. He backs up slowly, transforming into root mode to tromp off the road and into the brush. It takes Deathsaurus a moment to realize why they’ve stopped; Bumblebee is inching around a bit of flat ground just off the road, touching red paint scrapes left on a rock and studying a pedprint in the soft ground where a mech must have spent the night. “This is Cliff’s paint!” 

“And? We knew he came this way. You said he made it to Rodion proper.” 

“And his route file said he stopped in _Nyon_ on the way down to the Octagon Canyons, not stopped by the side of the road halfway through Tesarus and aiming for Ultrex.” He rubs a bit of paint with the pad of his thumb. “His first delivery was court papers in Tyrest. Private, no way of knowing if they were delivered except by either delivering them yourself or by checking the datawork, and if the datawork’s all faked...” 

“You don’t have a damn clue where he is or where he could be.” Deathsaurus stalks the edge of the former campsite, tail lashing back and forth “And this entire mission is a pointless exercise in brotherly desperation.” 

“I’ll find him.” Bumblebee stands, orienting himself towards the horizon. The sun’s setting over his shoulder, twin moons dropped down on his back like he’s balancing the weight of the would on it, light painting him in heavy blues and purples. He looks like a hero from some Ancient opera, the kind even Dez might find worth watching. _Does he do that on purpose?_ “He’s my brother, and he needs me.”

“Wonderful, but you can do it without me.” 

“I’ve still got leverage -“ 

“You acted this would take a few weeks at _most_ , not be a wild goose chase around the back end beyond of Cybertron!” Deathsaurus sneers at him, as best his bestial form can manage such an expression. His tail lashes and his wings fold up and out, making himself look larger as he looms over the little _insect_ that dares think he can command the kind of beasts, a _dragon_. 

“And what are you going to do, huh? Give up everything just because you don’t want to spend a little more time than you thought you would looking for someone?” 

“Yes!” 

“No, you won’t.” He snorts, the violent expulsion of air from his vents sending dust flying in the air. “Because I looked into you. _You_ are a failed Senate experiment who was about two steps from turning _traitor_ when you were in the Decepticons, and this post-war world is the best time you’ve ever had in your life. You’re _desperate_ to keep your new position in society because you’ve already lived in the dredges and clawed your way out once.” 

Fire burbles and bursts in his chest, spilling past clenched fanged. It’s just enough warning to let the little bastard dodge when Deathsaurus can’t hold back anymore, flooding the side of the road with belching flames. Something crackles, something pops, chemical reactions causing chain reactions that end in bursts of rainbow flames and melted slag. 

He exhausted himself soon enough, fuel and fire both sputtering out. He’s left staring at the devastation wrought by his lapse in judgment, plating flaring and vents whining as his frame dumps heat. It’s too hot for him to cool himself, too hot to do anything but scramble away from the flames and watch them burn out on the field. Smoke rises into the sky above like a signal warning the curious away. Nothing’s left but twisted, red hot metal as the last of them die down, slag and the _damn_ yellow bastard, perched on a rock just out of range of his flames. 

“You done now?” 

His whole frame is heaving, rattling, cored down and itching. Whatever else, he won’t be making any more flames until the reserves in his magnesium tanks fill back up. “...yeah, I’m done.” 

“You gonna try to kill me again?” 

“Not tonight.” Maybe tomorrow, or somewhere down the line when he knows the little bastard wouldn’t be on guard, but not tonight. 

“Then we’d better get moving. Don’t want Cliff’s trail getting any colder than it is.” 

He hisses. “I’m leaving once we hit Tesarus, having found him or _not_.” 

“You’ll stay.” 

“I clawed my way out of hell once, and I can do it again.” 

“By the time we hit Tesarus, you won’t want to leave.” 

“And why would I want to stay near the most annoying little slagger I’ve ever met?” 

“Because at least out here, there’s something to do.” 

“So?” 

“So you’re bored. Anyone could tell. You were bored enough to talk to my brother, you were bored enough to steal energon you don’t need, and you were bored enough to let yourselves get blackmailed into a quest for a mech who’s... well, Cliff. And being out here isn’t boring.” 

“Walking all day wasn’t boring?” He huffs, picking his way back towards the road. Frag the laws; he’s not navigating this slag in the dark. 

“Not as boring as the city was.” Bumblebee transforms down. “We drive another five kilos and then we make camp. You’re on first watch.” 

“First watch for what?” 

“You didn’t think we were the only things out here, did you? There’s all sorts in the wilds between the cities, and I’d rather we didn’t both get _eaten_ in our sleep.” 

“... wonderful.” 

Well, at least he’d dumped most of his rage back there in the road. It’s not something he would have been able to do in Iacon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not edited, nor beta’d, nor looked over more than once. Why? bc Im eager. Is the title of this chapter a frozen 2 reference? Yes.


End file.
